


to sink into the safety of your good graces (I beg of you, let me fall)

by MatildaSwan



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Lap Straddling, Marriage Proposal, Praise Kink, References to Baxter/Coyle, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-13
Packaged: 2019-02-11 16:19:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12939036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MatildaSwan/pseuds/MatildaSwan
Summary: She always did want to be good.





	to sink into the safety of your good graces (I beg of you, let me fall)

**Author's Note:**

> Big thank you to Arwen for the prompt and the beta!
> 
> Prompt was 'Baxter/Molesley neck kiss!!!!! Or firm kiss. Or both. I give you your choice,' and when I sat down to write, this came out. Who even knows, aye.

It was the glint in his eye when he called her clever that drew her in, the man who turned her cruel and ruined her life. His hands on her hips and his lips against hers kept her close, kept her ensnared, left her wanting.

He had praised her when she said she would steal for him, when she promised she knew how to give him something he so sorely wanted.

‘Oh, you clever girl,’ he breathed against her neck; her whole body rushed warm and dizzying, and for a moment she forgot how to breathe.

She would do whatever she could to make him proud.

So she hurried away and filled her pockets full of jewels with her body humming and her breath hitching; pressed them into his greedy waiting hands and watched his face light up in delight with her whole body trembling.

‘Oh, you good girl,’ he said with the twisted lips of a devil’s smile as he pulled her close. ‘Such a clever girl.’

She had whimpered against his mouth then watched him hurry away, and never once saw him again.

*

Molesley is nothing at all like Coyle—no two souls could be further apart, truth be told—yet she feels drawn to him in much the same way: finds comfort in being near him, wants him to think well of her, wants him to think about her when she is elsewhere.

But it is different again, so very different, as they grow close—how could they not, when they see each other every day—and he draws out the best in her, the bits of herself she has no shame in being.  She will never understand why he stayed when she told him who she used to be, but he had—by her side, in his own words: _I’m on your side_ —her friend, her ally, who knows her better than most and does not hate her at all.

He had stayed, and she loves him for it.

Still more, as the years pass, and the distance between them brings them even closer. Trips to his cottage are many and frequent, but still fewer than she would like, and when springtime comes to bring his newfound hobby to bloom, she uses the finery of his garden as an excuse to visit for no reason at all.  

‘I’m so glad you like it,’ he admits one afternoon, after the ground has shaken off the winter chill and let the bulbs sprout through, standing tall as they unfurl their petals. ‘I’d hoped you would.’

‘Of course I do,’ she replies, smiling bright, bending down to admire an iris. ‘What else can one do, but love something so beautiful.’ _Just like you,_ she almost adds, stroking a mottled purple petal. _What else was I to do._

He makes no reply; a bee lands on a tulip near her hand and she moves away to give it space. She watches it buzz about, dipping and weaving in and out of pink and cream blooms, before turning to see she is alone.

She frowns, notices the back door is open, walks curiously forward. She is barely half way across the lawn before he comes back out again, a hamper in hand and a rug rolled up and tucked under his arm, grinning wide.

‘Thought it would be a nice treat,’ he explains as he settles on a lush patch of lawn. ‘If the weather holds.’

Her eyes widen with delight as he pulls plate after plate of finger food from the hamper; she sinks to her knees as a lemon tea cake joins the spread. _My favourite,_ she thinks, _he remembered._

‘Oh, Mr. Molesley, you shouldn’t have!’

He blinks at her, looking a little crestfallen. ‘You don’t like it?’

‘No! No, it’s wonderful.’ She flaps her hands, aching to reach out, before folding them in her lap. He grins, happy and bright, and she feels her throat clench. ‘But you needn’t have gone to all this trouble for me.’

‘Who else would I do it for?’ he asked so simply, so innocently, she has to look away; picks up a triangle of egg and cress and nibbles gently.

She sees another bee settle on a pansy.

‘I see I’m not your garden’s only admirer,’ she muses, pointing to the tiny clusters of bumblebees.

‘What? Oh, yes! It’s wonderful, isn’t it? I’ve been wondering if I ought to set up a hive, actually.’

‘Really?’

‘Indeed! In fact, I just started reading about apiarists. It’s fascinating!’

 _It seems it_ , she thinks, soaking in a litany of facts about beekeeping. She listens in earnest, charmed as ever by the passion in his voice, always present whenever he spoke of a new interest, while she plays with a patch of grass by her knee.

A bee retreats from a crocus just beside them, leaves it swaying slightly in the breeze; she reaches out to still it, her finger resting delicately on the stem. She smiles at the flower and realises her friend has fallen silent.

For a moment she worries she might have seemed bored and turns back to bid him continue, only to find him gazing at her with a look in his eye that leaves her lost for words; she is far too old to pretend it is still mere fondness.

‘Phyllis?’ Her name on his lips sounds so sweet; it makes her shiver in the warm afternoon sun. ‘Marry me?’

Her heart hammers in her chest; her cheeks burn beat-red. She barely manages to stammer, ‘Are—are you serious?’

‘Yes, of course,’ he replies simply, surely, smiling so bright she nearly squints. ‘How could I not be?’

She almost sobs as she throws herself across the blanket, trying her best to be mindful of the sandwiches (the plate of fish paste ends up a casualty of her enthusiasm), and pounces onto his lap. 

‘Of course I will,’ she mumbles between kisses, dizzy and breathless, smiling against his mouth. ‘I worried you might never ask.’

*****

The ceremony is simple. Comfortable and cosy, as they wanted it, but elegant nonetheless, in a room that fills with all the more good cheer when the last bars of their first song warble on and he lifts her up off the floor. She throws her head back and laughs as they spin and spin and spin; settles back on her feet radiant and so full of love.

They eat well and drink far too much for the middle of the day and set off late for their weekend trip to the seaside; arrive at nightfall, no longer flushed and giggling but still beaming content, and expend the last of their energy checking into their hotel and climbing the stairs to their suite, juggling one large case and two smaller between them with as much grace as they can manage, only to curl up in the middle of the bed and simply sleep.

Phyllis feels a twinge of disappointment for just a moment before Joseph snuffles, rolls onto his side, and a hand falls to her hip. She sighs, small and sleepy, and shuffles close to the centre of the bed, till she feels his breath ghosting over her neck. She drifts off knowing that waiting just one more night is nothing compared to the time it took them to finally get here.

*

They wake refreshed and only a little glugy the next morning. The brisk ocean air soon cures them of that, and they spend the day roaming the seaside, admiring the views and exploring the beach town.

They stop at an ice creamery mid-afternoon, take a stroll along the boardwalk. She moves her hand to catch his while she busies herself licking cream from her cone, and when he returns the grip, without a breath of pause and even stronger than hers, she cannot help the smile that blossoms on her cheeks. She giggles and feels ice cream smear over her top lip.

His eyes track her tongue as it darts out to lick her mouth clean and she feels a flush rush through her: a feeling not entirely foreign, but unfamiliar, and something she has not felt in quite this way for what might be forever.

She blushes and ducks her head; he looks out to the sea and tries to stammer about the flight patterns of seafaring birds. Neither of them pull away.

Dinner is delicious, but tense. She tries her best to make light conversation, but she cannot think past what his body might feel like—near hers, against hers, _inside_ her—cannot move past the growing need to replace her fantasies with knowing. His own silence is perhaps more telling than the heat in his eyes, flicking warm over the candle flame separating them. It's little surprise to either of them when they finish their meal in haste.

She reaches out again as they walk up the stairs, to have him tangle their fingers together. They stay hand in hand as they stand beside their honeymoon bed and draw ever nearer; they only separate to peel back layer after layer to finally, _finally,_ learn the curves and panes of each other’s bodies with the palms of their hands.

*

She wakes the next morning with a dull ache between her thighs, unfamiliar but not unwelcome, which dissipates once she has risen and washed. She thinks of the night before as she scrubs herself clean: her husband’s fumbling awkwardness, endearing and sweet, as he lay beside her, as he sat inside her.

She shivers at the thought, warm and soft and nice, and returns to the bedroom to be greeted with his smile, his face lit up and radiating love. She feels a sense of closeness and contentment settle in her heart; hopes it never wavers. So, happy is she to feel it, still present, as she settles her things in his cottage.

She draws him into the bedroom on their first night living together, into a space that is now _theirs_ , and sits him on the bed’s edge.

He smiles up at her as she slides into his lap; hums with surprise and delight as she kisses him firmly. His hands, growing in confidence with past practice, span over her back, up to her neck, into her hair. She feels his fingers tighten ever so slightly, and she hums against his lips; feels them grip just that much tighter and breaks away with a gasp. She feels his lips on her chin, over her jaw, onto her neck; feels the faintest scrape of teeth on her skin at the new, awkward angle and sighs happily as warmth pulses between her thighs.

A hand slides over her shoulder, the curve of her back, the dip in her waist: still covered in cloth. The layers are too much, all of a sudden, she can’t stand them. She pulls back to tear them off, dropping them onto the floor without a thought, shuffles forward in his lap, pressed tight against the pane of his chest. Mewls against his lips as his hands slide over her hips again, his fingertips firm against warm flesh.

She can feel him hard against her thigh, and the throb between her legs make her desperate.

She draws away from his lips, dizzying and buzzing, and slides from his lap; strips his bottom half to leave him bare before he can draw breath. She cannot tell if she wants to cry or laugh at his gobsmacked face, so dear to her heart is he, but feels the weight between her legs press heavier on her mind than anything.

She slides back into his lap, one hand on his shoulders and the other wrapping around his cock to guide him where she aches most; rakes her hand through his hair, slides the other over the back of his neck, sinks down on his length to leave him seated deep inside her. 

He groans into her shoulder; she thinks it may be one of prettiest sounds she’s ever heard.

‘Oh, it’s—oh my,’ he stammers, his eyes squeezed tight as he flushes red. Her skin itches too much to reply. She simpers, rocks her hips. His eyes fly open and she gapes at their darkness as he breaths out, ‘Good, so good.'

He stares at her with such wonderment, such _want,_ that something in her breaks.

‘Tell me I’m good,’ she pleads as she moves against him. Her hips falter at his silence; his hand move them for her. ‘Please,’ she begs, ‘Tell me I’m good.’

‘You are, my love, so good,’ he groans against her breast. ‘The best thing that’s ever happened to me, so good.’

She whimpers and sobs and feels something flutter in her belly, something warm rushing through her body; she cannot breathe, cannot think, squeezes her eyes shut so she cannot see as she chokes on her own shouts, spasming hard as she writhes in his lap. He thrusts up into her sharply, groaning into her hair, pausing a moment before jerking again, and once more, before stilling beneath her. The jerking of her own hips ceases and she sags, gasping for breath, against his shoulder.

She manages a weak protest as he shifts them backwards, carefully lowering them into the bed crosswise to lie side by side, their toes dangling off the side of the bed.

‘How did you—I mean, you’ve never,’ he stammers, his voice thick with confusion and delight.

She blushes and smiles, her eyes still closed; feels a thumbpad stroke over her cheek, realises they are sticky with tears.

‘I never want you any other way,’ he whispers, a reverent promise, and leans forward to kiss her lips, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. ‘That was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’ Her eyes flutter open to see him looking at her like she really is something precious. _‘You_ are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’

She shuffles even closer to kiss him soundly; snuggles into the crook of his neck, his arms tight and safe around her, and feels herself believe it might just be true.


End file.
